“No—today!” cried the corporal quickly, as there came a sudden crash far out in front, and the next moment a gaping fissure showed in the ice.
“Yes, today!” assented the Indian as he watched. “That is the first, and there will be others. The break up has come. The spring has arrived.”
A cry from the camp startled them, and divining what had happened, the white man began to run. When he reached the fire he found Joy standing by his cousin. Her eyes were burning with tears. He looked at her, and as their eyes met, she answered the question in his.
“Yes,” she said, “a moment ago. He knew me again at the last.”
Roger Bracknell took a step forward, and looked into the still face of his cousin. To him it seemed extraordinarily peaceful, and the half-smile on the lips caught and held by death told its own story.
“He was happy in his death,” he said, “happier than in life. Poor old Dick!”
He turned away, leaving Joy alone with the dead for a little while. He knew that his cousin’s death meant release for her, and for himself also, since it would remove the bands of silence from him. But in that moment he refused to think of that aspect of the matter, and as with the help of Sibou he bent a couple of young spruces, that his cousin’s body might have the aerial sepulchre practised by the Northern tribes, he reflected how much of good there was in Dick, and how many such there are who having taken the wrong turn miss the full purpose of life.
Half an hour later the dead man was lashed to the young trees which were released, carrying the body high in the air. Such portions of the burial service as Roger could remember were recited, and then with Joy, he turned towards the camp.
“We will start in an hour, if you like,” he said. “The ice is not very good, but it will be worse tomorrow, and we can get some way towards Chief Louis’ camp. Once there, ice or no ice will not matter. We shall be able to get canoes.”